Why My Tear Glands Are Pathologically Incontinent (and Other Wins)

Ricarda Cara

Ricarda Cara, 27, lives in Berlin. Since a Covid infection turned into a chronic condition, she lives less in the city, and more in the landscapes of her own mind. Once in a corporate job, she now writes to make sense of how her world has changed. Her work explores insights into life gained from the absurd perspective of being chronically ill and is written for those who might find comfort in her words. More of her work is soon to be found on her Substack.

Why My Tear Glands Are Pathologically Incontinent (and Other Wins)

The other day, my therapist asked how I am coping with all of it. My first impulse is to dismiss the question as absurd, and to respond, almost defiantly: “I’m not coping.“
She adds: “Because you are coping, every day.“ She’s right, I think, I haven‘t lost my mind, so I am coping, in a way. And I realise, I do have a sick girl philosophy: The ways to view and bend reality that keep me somewhere between losing my mind and being okay.

Not thinking, for once. I used to reflect a lot to make sense of things. But when pain stops making sense, reflection turns unproductive – like two mirrors facing each other, boun-cing the same worn-out image into infinity. I don‘t do that anymore. I choose containment: I put my trauma in a lunchbox and leave it behind at school over the summer holidays. I very much hope that, by the time I come back, the mouldy contents won‘t spring out at me but will have quietly turned to dust.

A new reference point for life: death. Most people’s reference point to assess the quality of their lives is their dream life. Or, alternatively, the lives of others, that seemingly come closer to a dream life. Or a general idea of “how it should be“. My new reference point is death. I simply imagine, I died the day I crashed. And suddenly, I’m grateful for the way the sun doesn’t shine and the things that did not work out on that day.

Writing about how I feel and the thrill of finding the perfect metaphor. Like the realisation that my mental load resembles that of a troubled company’s CEO. Her decisions determine the company‘s existence and whether the 4,000 employees might lose their jobs – except the company is my body, and the decision is whether I can go for a 10-minute walk.

Stoicism. I have always thought of stoicism as a way of thinking young, dissatisfied heterosexual cis-men turn to. Now, I do see deeper truths in it (“A good life is a life without pain“ – oh man, tell me about it!). However, I would like to clarify, I am refusing the idea of me devolving into the mental state of a young, dissatisfied heterosexual cis-man.

The people in my life. The ones who are not in the same boat: My friends have said “baby steps“ and “a win is a win“ innumerable times by now, and don’t seem to get tired of it. And the people I found, who are in the same boat. They have traumas similar to mine. If one were to string all our traumas together like pearls on a thread, the chain would reveal a strange beauty of varied repetition.

Being sensitive. I used to be of plain cotton, now I am made of silk and some other, permeable fabric. I cry very easily, with “very” being best explained as pathologically incontinent tear glands. I cry over everything, I cry over the painting of a frog on the Haiku Wikipedia page.

Going over these points I realise I am in a state of mental superposition: I am okay and not okay at the same time. I cry, I cry, but every time I cry, my tears roll shimmering wet traces down my face. And the Haiku frog, sitting on Mars and looking down at me, is marvelling at how every tear leaves a silver lining on my cheeks.